


for a reason

by sarcasticfishes



Category: Actor RPF, American Actor RPF, Teen Wolf (TV) RPF
Genre: Christmas, F/M, Friends to Lovers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-23
Updated: 2014-01-23
Packaged: 2018-01-09 18:47:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,696
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1149517
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sarcasticfishes/pseuds/sarcasticfishes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You’d flown from LAX to Newark, just to be told your connecting transatlantic flight home was grounded, because of the snow. No flights for at least three days, no way you’d be home for Christmas. You do the first thing you can think of, without a second guess. Call Dylan.</p>
            </blockquote>





	for a reason

**Author's Note:**

  * For [mykindofchaos](https://archiveofourown.org/users/mykindofchaos/gifts).



> This is for [Jo](http://mykindofchaos.tumblr.com/) because she keeps me sane most days and is one of my most favourite people on earth!
> 
> Haven't really written in 2nd person POV in a long time, so it was nice to go back to that. Fic is unbeta'd and all errors are my own fault. I don't claim to know anything about Dylan or his family, a lot of this is artistic license.

You’d flown from LAX to Newark, just to be told your connecting transatlantic flight home was grounded, because of the snow. No flights for at least three days, no way you’d be home for Christmas. You do the first thing you can think of, without a second guess. Call Dylan.

He answers, his voice all quiet and hoarse, and suddenly you remember it’s past 2am, and your stomach drops.

“Shit, sorry,” you mutter, before he’s even gotten out the second syllable of his hel _lo_ , “I forgot the time. Sorry.”

He clears his throat, the noise somehow sweet to your ears, and asks, “Huh- where are you?”

“Newark,” you say, quickly, breezily, no going back, “I’m grounded here until the 27th.”

“Christ,” he mutters, sounding more awake “That’s- wow. I’m sorry.”

“I’ve never really been around these parts,” you admit, “Know good hotels?”

Last time you’d tried to find a hotel, it hadn’t been the best experience. The food poisoning spoke for itself, and permanently turned you off room service for that matter.

Dylan’s quiet for a moment, and then he says, “Spend Christmas with _us_.”

For a moment, the word _us_ makes your breath catch. He means the O’Briens, he means the extended family he’s staying with in Springfield. He means Christmas in New Jersey with his family, and it is _mind_ boggling.

“Uh-”

“Naw, seriously, c’mon. You’re like the only cast member my family hasn’t met yet, and like, I never shut up about you so-”

It makes your face flush, the fact that he admits to talking about you. But Dylan adores his co-stars, it’s not that big of a compliment the more you let yourself think about it. So you stop thinking about it.

“Are you sure there’s room,” you ask hesitantly, and he snorts.

“We’ll make room, c’mon.”

You take a taxi to the address he gives you.

It’s nearly 3am, but he’s awake when you get there, with tea, just the way you like it, and you sort of melt into him, into his grip, and then you break down. It’s the third year in a row you’re missing the holidays with your family. Dylan knows, knows how much you want to be there, knows how lonely Los Angeles makes you feel. You drink your tea with tear-salty lips and he watches you with sad amber eyes under the kitchen lights.

You know this bedroom. It’s not the one from the videos (that’s in the house in California), but he’s Skyped you from there before, and it feels surreal when you’re on the other side of the lens. His bed is slept in already, but you crawl in anyway, because you’re cold, and tired, and sad, and the sheets are warm and so is he when he slips in next to you without a word.

You wake up alone, and stumble into the kitchen. His mother isn’t surprised to see you, and introduces herself as Lisa, and Dylan is at the breakfast bar, mouth full.

“Hap-” he begins.

“Dylan,” his mother warns. He nearly chokes on his – hot beverage of some sort – in an effort to swallow what’s in his mouth.

“Happy Christmas!” he chirps.

It’s the 25th.

“You too,” you say, sitting down opposite, and he knocks his ankle against yours under the bar.

Dinner is ridiculously good, loud, fun. You’re grateful, always, but you feel sort of out a place. It’s hard to watch a family like Dylan’s enjoying Christmas together, so when they exchange presents you slip out to call your own family, cry on the phone to your mother, which you’ve never done before. When you turn around, he’s there, frowning, eyebrows drawn together in concern.

“Cake?” he asks shrugging, and you laugh, and nod as he drags you inside. It’s his mother’s recipe, the double layer sponge, and it just as ridiculously good as dinner. You think you’ll send Lisa flowers in the New Year, to thank her for taking you in and letting you crash in her house.

In the evening Dylan proposes a walk in the neighbourhood, just the two of you, and it sounds like heaven. The family atmosphere in the house is oxymoronic in the way it stifles and comforts you, and you want to get _out_ as soon as you can. His extended family is lovely, welcoming, but it just makes you sad.

He makes sure you wrap up in a hat and gloves, because he says the temperature is in the thirties, and you don’t know exactly how to convert that into Celsius but it feel pretty freaking cold. He takes your gloved hand when you walk down the street, and you lean into him, into the soft felt lapel of his coat. Getting to know this man had been like getting to know a part of you that you’d been missing for half your life.

“I’m sorry you’re so upset,” he says, eventually, and your chest clenches as he squeezes your hand.

“No! _I’m_ sorry I’m crashing your Christmas. I wasn’t thinking straight when I called you last night-”

His face falls, and you regret saying that, backtrack.

“I mean, you’re always going to be my first call, D. I just don’t want to intrude on you and your family. I know how much family time means to you, I just- I’m sorry.”

His frown makes you want to kiss him until his mouth makes a different shape, one that doesn’t make you feel so cold.

“You _are_ family,” he says, finally.

It feels like your chest is collapsing, just looking at his face, your heart running a million miles an hour, and the tears well up without warning. His eyes widen, distraught as he rushes forward to cup your face with his hands.

“Jesus, no, don’t _cry_ ,” he whines, and it’s _him_ that takes the frown from _your_ mouth with a kiss that’s been waiting away for just over three years, a kiss you’ve thought about nearly every time you’ve looked at him. But it’s there now; it’s real, tangible thing between your lips and his.

It doesn’t feel so cold out after that.

You buy hot chocolate in a café to-go and he puts his arm around you on the way home. Not much is said, but neither of you need it. The way he rests his cheek atop your head, your palm against his hip under his jacket says it all.

You watch Christmas movies with his family in their living-room, tucked in against his ribs (fingers buried in his sweater) like you would be regardless of a kiss or no kiss. When your eyes get too heavy, he takes you to bed.

He’s so warm, and you realise that’s something you’ve always loved about him. He runs hotter to the touch, for some reason, but when you mention it to him, he laughs and you can feel it reverberate through you where your back is pressed to his chest.

“That’s just- that’s you,” he murmurs, his cheek grows hot against your neck. You can see him in your mind’s eye, flushed and embarrassed, so _so_ beautiful, “It’s my natural reaction to you.”

He wraps his arms around you fully and you clasp his hands to your chest, kissing his knuckles. You doubt the novelty of being able to touch him like this will wear off any time soon. You think you’d be comfortable touching him forever.

“Natural reaction,” he says again, and this time you giggle when you feel his erection against the back of your thighs. Instead of shying away like a teenage boy (something he _definitely_ no longer is), he laughs too and presses against you-- and you push back, feeling a bolt of heat run through you when he groans. He cock rests against the cheeks of your ass, and you like the feeling, the closeness, the intimacy he would have never let you feel before (out of pure courtliness).

“Well, c’mon then,” you say, and his mouth opens against your neck with a sucking kiss.

“You wanna?” he says, a smile in his voice, and you nod.

“ _Yeah_ , I wanna,” you murmur, and he chuckles again, hips rolling forward. You untangle one of your hands from his, reaching back to grip the muscle of his thigh, firm and hot under your hand.

“Like this?” he asks, pulling you back against him even tighter, and you don’t care, you just want to feel him.

“Yeah, like this.”

Your fingers catch the waistband of his boxer-briefs and tug until he wriggles them down and kicks them off his feet, down to the bottom of the bed. His fingers push down at your shorts until you slip them off too, grinding your hips back to him a little. The skin-on-skin contact is so good, and you shudder at the sensation.

“Condom?” he asks, “Do we need one?”

“No,” you say, and then, reiterate, “Do we?”

“No,” he breathes out. It’s pretty much a green light, and you want to touch him, want the rawness of feeling his heat inside you unhindered. Dylan hooks a large hand over your thigh and moves you into a good position, the head of his cock nudging at your entrance. He snuggles into you, and your stomach swoops with feeling; he’s perfect, and there’s nothing, no-one, you want more.

He pushes in, slowly, and you arch back, head against his shoulder as you breathe out his name. He pushes his free hand underneath your shirt, resting against your stomach as he fills you slowly. You remember everyone else in the house, how late it is, and bite down on your lip to keep quiet. But it feels so _good_.

It feels right, and suddenly you know everything happens for a reason. _This_ is why your flight was grounded. For him.

“Keep your leg there,” he whispers, and you nod, his arm crossing your chest to hold you tight against his, and suddenly his hips are working into you, fast as the angle and position allows, and the heat that comes over you is _delicious_ , consumes you.

You moan, and he covers your mouth, stifling his own noises into your shoulder, teeth raking over the skin softly. You wish you’d gotten to see his cock, it feels thick and perfect like this, and you reach down with the arm against the mattress, fingers spreading into a V where you can feel him moving in and out of you, and he grunts a little louder, a little deeper, eyelashes fluttering against your neck. Your other hand reaches back, sliding into his hair; he presses his mouth to your ear and whispers your name, and you come.

You turn your head to catch his lips with yours, to bury the sounds of your orgasm in his mouth, and he nips at your lower lip as he shudders and gasps, the throb of him inside you feels better because it’s _him_ , and he’s coming because of you, because of how you make him feel.

When he pulls out, he sucks in a breath between his teeth, slips his cock between the lips of your pussy for a moment, and you hiss as the head brushes against your clit but it’s good. You know it’s always going to be this good. Better. Great. _Fantastic_.

“Merry Christmas,” he laughs, when you turn over to kiss him. He slips out of his shirt and so do you, his skin damp but still burning hot the way you love it. You nuzzle his chest and fall asleep with his fingers in your hair.

You wake with his face between your legs, and having already been obsessed with his mouth _before_ all the kissing, it’s easily in the top five best experiences of your life. Top three, even. He brings you off twice before you pull him up, kiss his slick, red mouth and wrap your hand around his cock. It’s just as perfect as you imagined, and your mouth is tingling for it so you slide down and let him press your lips open with his thumb before he slides in between them.

And orgasm and a shower later, you’re trying not to blush at the knowing looks you’re getting from various family members, when you remember the way he’d sucked and nipped at your neck the night before, the way the skin must look now. Dylan gets a glazed look in his eyes when you ask him about it, his mouth curving into a smile as his fingers touch the tender skin.

“So what?” he asks, “I want them to know.”

You bite you lip, hating to be the first one to ask, “What is it that we’re letting them know?”

He huffs out a breath, “That your mine? That I’m yours? That we’re… together?”

You smile, nod; you let him brighten up a mark just below your jaw until his mother interrupts with a grin, requesting help setting the table. It’s okay.

The family goes out shopping that afternoon, Dylan opts to drag you back to bed and make good use of the empty house, and you don’t mind because he makes the pretties noises when you hold him down and ride him, when he flips you over and returns the favour.

“Don’t take this the wrong way, but I’m glad you missed your flight,” he says, when you’re clothed again, sitting downstairs in front of the TV, “I mean, I hate that you missed your family, but I loved this. Spending Christmas with you. Being with you.”

“Everything happens for a reason,” you say.

He just holds you that night, worn out and a little melancholy. This thing between you has only just started, and you’re going away again in the morning. It’s three weeks until hiatus is over and you’re both back on set. Having just gotten him, it’s hard to think about leaving again.

In the morning, it’s hard to convince yourself that you actually want to leave (the bed - the house - him), but once he drags himself to the shower, it’s not that hard to convince yourself that you actually want to follow. He pushes his fingers inside you ( _god_ , his _hands_ ) and tells you he’ll think about you every day while you’re gone. You make him promise to call sometimes while he’s thinking about you, so you can hear him. He laughs as he kisses you, and it’s still a mystery as to how he can be so sweet and sexy at the same time.

His mother hugs you tightly, and invites you for dinner at the house in California when you get back. Dylan makes an embarrassed noise like _mom, stop, we just started- don’t scare her away_ (like you could be scared off). You get in the passenger seat of his car, and the weight that had been dragging you down at the thought of missing Christmas with your family, now feels non-existent. Because you did spend Christmas with family, and you extended that family too.

“Three weeks. I’m not, counting down the days or anything,” Dylan says, sarcastically. Your hand is on the car door, he’s just dropping you off.

“Wow, you can count that high?” you tease, and he rolls his eyes.

“I set myself up for that one.”

“You set yourself up for a lot of things.”

“Do I,” he deadpans, giving you a push out of the car.

“You got stuck with me, didn’t you?” You laugh, and his face softens, like he’s about to say something ridiculous, way too soon in the relationship. Then the car behind honks its horn, and you both jump. This is just the drop off zone. You gotta run.

“Call me when you land,” he says.

“It’ll be like, the middle of the night?” you laugh.

“Didn’t stop you before!” he shouts, peeling away from the sidewalk, and your heart thumps extra hard at the smile on his face as he drives away. Three days ago, if someone told you you’d be standing where you are now, you’d call them crazy. But a lot can happen in three days.

And everything happens for a reason.

 


End file.
